Pass the Bottle
by thepurplequill
Summary: Is there something more romantic than a cool summer night in which you share a well-deserved bottle of booze with your best friend? Probably yes, but a tipsy mind has an own view on how to rate circumstances. Fluffy, romantic, yet canon-friendly One Shot about the Lady Seeker and the Commander of the Inquisition. T rated for excessive alcohol consume.


_This One Shot was meant to be a part of a whole series of fluffy Cassandra/Cullen scenes, but I doubt that I will have the time to write all of them since I have a graduation and a ton of still unwritten or unedited requested FanFictions breathing down my neck. Canon friendly, in my eyes._

 _I hope you enjoy reading it. :)_

 _Note: The sentence Cullen quotes is from the codex entry "Seekers of the Truth" in Dragon Age II._

* * *

 _ **Pass the bottle**_

 _Alvarado's Bathtub Boot Screech:_

 _If you can read this, you haven't drunk it._

His back rests against the wall next to the window as he sits on her bed and takes a too big swallow from the bottle. If he continues like this he won't be tipsy anymore but shamelessly drunk, however, the same goes for his hostess so he couldn't care less. The booze is strong and therefore burns as it runs down his throat, making him nearly choke on every new sip before he hands the bottle over to her outstretched and waiting hand.

"Can't get enough, can you?" He grins at her, relaxed and with the glow in his eyes that she admires so much but believed lost to the withdrawals for a long time.

She raises both her eyebrows and shrugs. "I only want to catch up with you." To see him without his armour outside of the morning run became a strange sight, although it is a nice one and she regrets it immediately that they haven't shared more time together in the past few months. They sometimes talk and they train together daily whenever she is at Skyhold, but especially sitting in each others quarters and talking about the maker and the world is something they haven't done in a time that feels like ages to her. But it is no wonder; he is the Commander of a steadily growing number of soldiers whose places of actions are spread all over Thedas and she is the constant companion of the Inquisitor.

Today they only found together because she has managed it to break her ankle twice and it needs rest to heal – much to her irritation – and he has escaped two Orlesian men who recognised him from Halamshiral and got a bit too excited for his liking. It had been the perfect moment for opening one of her stashed bottles and eating the pieces of cake he had stolen from the kitchen before he escaped from his admirers.

"There is one thing I have asked before but I never got more than a raised eyebrow... From where do you have this giant scar on your left cheek? No offence, but it is a crater, so I suppose it was not a souvenir from a simple sword fight?" His hand rests on her ankle nearly innocently as he studies the scar in her face, and it makes a shiver running down her spine although she'd never admit it.

"The story behind it is more boring and frustrating than you probably expect it to be." She places her lips on the tip of the bottle-neck and takes much slower swallows than he does because in comparison to him she enjoys the burning and the bitter-sweet taste.

Actually, the whole situation has something romantic in it. The relieving coolness of the night slowly replaces the nearly unbearable heat the sun brought into her room during the hours of the day and makes the light curtains blow a bit in its breezes. The candle on her table has gone out half an hour ago, the only light sources are the lights of Skyhold, the moon, and the fire from the forge downstairs. And is there anything more romantic than getting drunk with a good friend? Probably, but she is already too tipsy to think of something else. She passes the nearly empty bottle over to him again.

She can feel him move and slide nearer to her, up to the high of her hips, as she peers into the bottle from the far to see how much is left. Not enough to blackout, that's for sure.

"And yet I'd love to hear it." He grabs the bottle again, takes a spirited swallow. "And we will need more of this stuff."

"You know where the more is, so if you want the more get your ass up and get it yourself." She leans forward and pokes her finger into his ribs, being highly fascinated by the high sound that escapes his lips.

"As if you don't want more as well, boozer." He snatches her wrist, and before she knows what is happening, he places a kiss on her knuckles. "But I'd never say that as the gentleman I am."

As an answer, she snorts, but at least doesn't try to punch him. One of her bad habits when she is drunk: Underestimating the force behind a smack.

"I'm not a boozer and if you continue to be so charming I'll never tell you about my scar, rather give you one of your own." The look in her eyes is daring, but the small wrinkles around the corners of her mouth tell him something different, make him smile, make him wonder if she is not the grumpy nature as she wants people to believe she is.

"As my lady commands." He winks and it comes easily to him with the alcohol running through his veins along with his blood and the last remaining bit of the Lyrium that his body hasn't washed out yet. Clingy stuff, but there is not much left, the freedom is near, though the withdrawals will stay a bit longer, probably, most likely. "So, what did happen?"

She has never told anyone. Has never told anyone how she hadn't been able to look at her own face for months, how she had struggled with everything that had something to do with it, but now the time feels ripe to tell someone. No, to tell him, her friend. A friend that told her about his addiction, about his fight, about the daily ordeal he lives with. He has made himself vulnerable in a way, has exposed her more than she ever expected, left her with a knife in her hand with which she could kill him easily. But he trusts her, trusted her when they barely knew each other, and now she should trust him because she owes him a story of her life. It takes her a few moments to gather her thoughts, but he does not push her with an expecting and excited look on his face. Instead, he searches for another bottle of booze, so that they can drink themselves into unconsciousness if they wish to.

"I got it on a battlefield, just as you got that lovely long scar from your waist to your navel." She owes him, it is about time to tell someone, but although everything went well, in the end, the thought of the faith she escaped by a hairsbreadth alone makes swallowing harder than it should be. Her experience is nothing unusual, but it was the first time she had been confronted with not only the cold-bloodedness but also the full cruelty of war. "Outnumbered. One to three. It was enough to overwhelm a young woman who has not found her full strength yet, and so it was easy for them to wound me and bring me down with only the strength of their arms. I escaped, luckily, but not without a beautiful souvenir that ruined my face for some suitors."

"I see." His voice is silent, so soft, his look scans her face expression that stayed neutral, as it does so often. Now wordless he offers her the first swallow of the bottle which she takes gladly, and he sits down, this time nearer to her lower legs, farther away from her. Some wine, nothing too expensive or fancy, only a seduction with a sweet note in it. Even when he takes the bottle back to take a sip himself he does not stop looking at her, with an expression she can't sort in a category which is unusual for him. He is not one for being a blank piece of paper.

"But you are one of the most beautiful women I know, still.", he spurts out, one of his mindless outbursts that his body rewards with a slight blush she can only vaguely perceptible in the darkness of the late hour. "I mean... If not... Ah... You know what I mean."

"You are flattering me." If it is a reproach or only an assessment, he can't tell, she can't tell neither.

But the alcohol saves him from another awkward reaction with the bachelor inside of him coming out. "Someone has to do it."

"Do you remember the first time we met?" She crosses her arms, looks at him challenging, but at the same time she taps his shoulder with her intact foot, makes clear she is not as serious as she usually is. It is not only the booze, but it is also him, his calm and light presence, their friendship.

A grin that turns into a grimace and a try to catch her foot. "Maker, don't remind me. I considered faking falling into unconsciousness."

"This thought matches the look you had on your face." She doesn't yank her foot away after his hand wrapped around her ankle to stop her assaults on him. "But at least you did not go on the run like a few of your man."

"Yes, because I happened to be the leader of the Templars of Kirkwall. I could not fail the men under my command." He shudders at the memory, but there is a small smile playing around his lips. "But you know what they say: _''When a Seeker steps from the shadows, templars run for cover.''_ And it is the truth. Why else does a Seeker come if we did not fail? And we failed in Kirkwall, so we expected you to be our judge. I cannot tell you how much we feared you."

"All those sleepless nights and then I only wanted to know more about Hawke and wanted to lure you away." A grin appears on her face, makes it impossible for her to drink. "But you recovered fast."

"Yes, because if you want to recruit me I cannot be so inept in your eyes." He takes the bottle out of her hand and takes a swallow. Her foot does not rest on him anymore, rather found its old spot next to her broken one.

"That's true. But I did not mention our first meeting to dwell in memories; you even flattered me back then." This time, it does sound like an accusation.

He nearly chokes on the wine because of a suppressed laughter. "I did? What did I say?" He himself cannot recall flattering her. To be honest, he is not the master of flirting, so it does not sound like him.

"You were so taken by surprise by the way I look that you needed some moments to gather yourself. Your opening line was an apology for your ''inappropriate stare, but I got other descriptions about the way you look and it's... a pleasant surprise.''."

Well, that does sound like him. "Maker... was I drunk?"

"And then you realised what you have said and more apologies and explanations followed." Her grin still did not vanish; it is probably the alcohol which makes her more open and laid back than she usually is. The hard shell of the Seeker breaks open and reveals Cassandra's nature.

Cullen groans and rubs his forehead with his fingertips. "What made you think that I'd be a good Commander?"

"Because you know how to lead, but you still accept an authority above you. Because you have the tactical intelligence we need, but you still see soldiers as humans. There are many reasons, and your talent with women does not matter. Do you really think we asked you to be the Inquisition's Commander if we did not know if you are the right person for the job? You forget that Leliana and I worked together. Although I recruited you, she found out everything we needed to know." She rolls her eyes and leans back against the wall before she decides different and leans towards him instead. "Stop doubting yourself." Then a deep sigh escapes her and she reaches for his hand, strokes her fingertips lightly across his, pulls it away from his forehead. "Even now, tipsy and relaxed, you manage it to remind yourself of those bitter thoughts. Forget them." Now it is her turn to come a little closer, to place her hands on his broad shoulders, to rest her chin next to her right hand.

"I... It's just... I didn't make the best first impression you can make, did I?" He turns his head slightly, his nose tip nearly touches the bridge of her nose. "Very professional."

She doesn't answer immediately, only caresses his shoulder with her left hand. His breath tickles the skin of her cheek, makes a pleasant shiver run down her spine. If she turned her head more, she could press her lips to his chin, and it would lack the uncomfortable feeling she usually has when she shows affection. The booze is doing its work, but her mind is still clear enough to make her not giving in to the moment of closeness. It would only make things awkward between them if he reacts differently than she expects him to, and her sober mind would forbid it anyway. "You worry too much."

"I always did. At least since I joined the Templars." He smiles a little, at least his voice is telling her so. "Is your sitting position convenient?"

"Hardly."

He shifts until she understands the hint and slips away from him so he can stand up. Maker, the man really is not hard on the eyes. She cannot see much in the darkness, but it is enough for her to admire the length of his whole body as he stretches towards the ceiling he can nevertheless not reach. The loose tunic lifts high enough to reveal his stomach up to his navel, the pale skin, the tension of his muscles, the line of dark blond hair that disappears in his breeches and under his shirt towards his chest. He blinks a few time, shakes his head. "Really shouldn't do that drunk.", he mutters under his breath and he seems to struggle with his balance for a few seconds, but he catches himself again and sits down on her other side, with his back leaned against her pillows. He stretches his left arm out, just as if he wants her to settle back against his chest so he can place his arm around her. But this cannot be his intention, can it? Hesitantly she slides towards the free space next to him, but stops a few inches away, does not dare to touch him. It would only harm his private space, something she cherishes too much herself. She will not intrude it only because her tipsy mind wouldn't mind being a bit closer to him than usual, or because her heart wouldn't mind her snuggling up to a handsome man for once.

But her inner dilemma solves itself with his strong arms wrapping themselves around her waist and pulling her against him, holding her close. "Hey." His whisper tickles the skin of her temples and he seems to smile again. It is so unusual to witness him happy and relaxed. It is a more common sight to see him worked up, done with the three women he has to work with and the clumsiness of some recruits, and fishing for respect with a rather serious and stern shell. To be honest, his usual persona is not so different from hers, but nevertheless, she likes it when the corners of his mouth point upwards or when his lips are curled in amusement.

"Hey." Her own voice is only a breath because she fears that a too loud sound might destroy the calmness and the relaxed atmosphere that surrounds them. Stupid thought of a mind that is stripped off its ability to think rational or logical in any way. She wants to enjoy every second of this beautiful night. The back of her head settles on his shoulder and she looks up at him, directly into his amber eyes that reflect his smile that hasn't vanished yet. Maker, how can one not get lost in them? How was Amell able to resist them? Falling into their warmth is falling in love, even if it is only for this one moment, even if it does not survive longer than right now.

His fingers stroke over her cheek, over her lips and chin before they travel their way back and disappear in her hair where they stay as the bottom part of his hand rests lightly against her temple.

"Maker, you are so beautiful." No stutter. No blush. No bashfulness. Only his thoughts unfiltered from his brain. What else can it be than what he considers being the truth? Her heart races and she can hear her own pulse as his lips press a kiss to her lower lip, maybe to test how she will react, maybe to keep the sweetness and innocence of the moment.

"And then we kissed.", she mumbles against his lips before she captures them in a lazy and soft kiss. By the socks of Andraste, his mouth on hers feels better than she has ever imagined in the few moments of weakness she has had in the past one and a half years. His lips are dry but warm and they taste of booze and sweet cream, probably just like her own. The kiss, the tenderness, the intimacy of the moment does not remind her of Regalyan, does not make her dwell in long gone memories of her shared past with another man. Right now, it is only Cullen and her. She sights when he deepens the kiss, and he pulls her down into a spiral of infatuation and passion. Her hands find the back of his neck and his hair, he pulls her even closer than she already is and -

"Cassandra?" A voice from downstairs. "Are you still awake?"

A silent growl escapes Cullen and she has to press her lips against his neck to not start laughing in the lightness of her drunkenness.

"She'll come upstairs, no matter if I am awake or not." She whispers, still trying to suppress a giggle with little succeed. "So if you do not want Josephine and her to gossip about us from now on, then shove off."

A huff. "Ex or hiding? The wine, I mean." He grabs the bottle from the small table standing next to her bed and lets its contents swash inside of it.

"Less talking, more drinking. Unless you want to share with Leliana. Space and wine." While Cullen starts to down the first half of the remaining liquor, she shouts downstairs. "Yes, I am awake. Is it an important matter?"

"Yes, and now that you are here for once and I'd like to have your opinion." Her voice is still in the lowest level of the building, but it moves.

He passes the bottle on to her so she can drink the rest. One more sip and he will not be able to walk straight anymore. The level of difficulty is already high enough to speak without a hint of slurring and keeping up his confident steps. It is less the wine than the Alvarado's Bathtub Boot Screech, but half a bottle of finest wine from Orlais is enough to give him the last push into drunkenness. But he is practiced and gifted enough to seem fairly sober no matter how much he drank. Not a talent you can brag about or be proud of, but it can be rather useful, especially when you have to face the Knight Commander in the middle of the night unprepared.

"If you want to talk about the operation we discussed earlier, then let me tell you: I will not change the troop movements in Ferelden. Josephine and I decided that we will only worry King Alistair and I do not fancy a visit from one of his own Commanders so they can rap me over the knuckles in his name." He stands next to the stairs and tries to locate the Spymaster, but she is still not in his field of view.

"Cullen, you are here as well?" Her voice is as calm as always. How does she do that?

"Yes. Shocked?"

"No, merely... surprised. Shall I be worried for our Lady Seeker's heart?" As always, Leliana manages to know too much too soon, and it makes him shoot a confused look at Cassandra who only shrugs and continues hiding the bottles and plates. Or he interprets too much into her playful words, which is far more possible. "But I did not come because of an operation. To be honest, it is not even something about the Inquisition, so I'd rather speak to Cassandra alone."

He huffs in defeat as his hostess gives him a nod. He expected to sleep it off here, curled up at the foot end of the bed or next to her like he already did once or twice, but maybe the Maker has another plan for him, considering that he did not kiss the Seeker the last times they ended up tipsy or drunk. But nevertheless, he insists on pressing his lips on hers for one last time this evening before he grabs his boots and passes by Leliana on his way down the stairs.

The butterflies in his stomach still flutter and his lips still remember hers after he crawled into his bed an hour later.


End file.
